What The Hell, Sherlock?
by idjitsandassbutts
Summary: In which Sherlock is an asshole to John for underlying reasons. John attempts to get back at him, but Sherlock negates it, as usual. Super fluffy towards the end.


For as long as he could remember, John Watson had kept up a morning routine - nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. He would simply roll slowly out of bed, use the bathroom, brush his teeth, take a shower, then have his breakfast along with a steaming, strong cup of coffee.

At least, until Sherlock Holmes stepped into his life a few months ago. Although perhaps "shoved his way ungracefully" was a more apt description.

Nowadays, there were very few instances where John was able to slowly bring himself out of the muddled arena of his dreams and into the real world. Instead, he would be woken by terrible crashing noises from the living room, loud violin music (and no matter the sweetness of the tune, it didn't make up for the fact that John wanted his sleep), and, when Sherlock was particularly bored, gunshots. A quiet night was practically unheard of.

So, when, at nearly three in the morning one day, John was yanked out of his slumber by what he was almost certain was the sound of pots and pans being banged on with a wooden spoon, he thought almost nothing of it. _Well, might as well get something to eat since I'm already up, and find out what the hell Sherlock's up to... _he thought, rubbing his face with his hands to wipe the sleep away.

As he walked downstairs, he called out, "Sherlock? What's going on down here?"

When there was no reply, he called out again. "Sherlock...?"

With an exasperated shake of his head, he made his way into the dark kitchen, where he discovered various cookware items scattered on the floor. _Why would he do this? I can't even think of a reason... and of course he'll expect me to clean up the whole mess... typical Sherlock... _John thought as he continued to survey the damage. "Sherlock, get in here and explain this, please!" he shouted, louder this time. _Where the hell could he have gotten to?_ "Ah, well. Might as well tidy up a bit now before Mrs. Hudson trips over something in the morning and hurts herself, God forbid," he muttered.

As he picked up a medium-sized pot, he noticed a large dent in the side. "Great, he's gone and dented it. Or was it always like this? Oh, sod it, I can't remember..." he muttered, opening one of the upper cabinets and sliding the pot towards the back. Just as he was about turn around to pick up another of the items, a BANG rang out in his ear, and as he jumped with surprise, a large, dark shape was suddenly extraordinarily close to him. A large shape that, under closer inspection, turned out to be none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"Jesus _Christ_, Sherlock! What the _hell_ was that for?"

"Quiet. Don't want to have to do this all over again. Now keep still," said Sherlock as he quickly grabbed John's left wrist and pressed two fingers to the major vein in it, closing his eyes.

"But what-"

"Sh!"

John sighed. He was used to Sherlock doing things like this - unexpected, strange things he'd have to explain to John later on, things that only made sense in the mind of a genius. But just because he was used to it didn't mean he enjoyed it.

As he stood there, waiting for Sherlock to be done taking his pulse for whatever reason he was doing it, he suddenly became acutely aware of his close proximity to his flatmate. John was practically pressed against the counter, while Sherlock was mere inches from him, his long, slightly cool fingers pressed against his wrist. He couldn't help but stare at Sherlock's face, with the look of calm focus that dominated it at the moment. His attention was drawn, as always, to Sherlock's sharp, angular cheekbones and full lips. _Beautiful..._ John thought, then immediately took an imaginary riding crop to the idea and attempted to beat it out of his head just as he could feel his heart rate begin to pick up. "Oh, no," he thought. He cleared his throat. "Er, Sherlock-"

"Fascinating. Your pulse has just sped up quite considerably. But why? It should have returned to normal by now," said Sherlock, furrowing his brow and opening his eyes.

"Alright, that's enough," John replied, averting his eyes and deliberately looking straight at the kitchen light to ensure that his pupils wouldn't dilate. Sherlock would almost certainly notice immediately if they were.

Sherlock looked at John with a mixture of disappointment and confusion.

"Why, Sherlock?"

"Because you're an interesting specimen, John."

"Oh, is that right? Well, this "specimen" is going back to bed. And clean all of this up before someone trips."

"Yes, Mum."

"Oh, shut up."

A few days later, when the whole situation had mostly been forgotten, John was just returning home after he work at the doctor's office for the day. Around noon he had been tasked with treating a particularly interesting patient with some sort of parasite living in his stomach, and had immediately thought of Sherlock and his current fascination with tape worms. Naturally, he wanted to tell Sherlock what he'd missed out on, and entered the flat expecting some sort of mess to have been made or to see his flatmate deep in concentration over an experiment. What he found in actuality was an empty apartment and a note sitting, lonely, on the cluttered kitchen table. He almost didn't notice it, but being that it was sitting directly next to what John suspected was a jar of eyeballs that hadn't been there in the morning, it attracted his attention. John's eyes narrowed as he picked up the note and brought it closer to his eyes. The hastily scrawled, loopy handwriting read:

"John. Call Lestrade. Golem in the house. Don't know where he'll take me."

After reading it twice to ensure that he had read it properly, he yelled, "SHERLOCK!" and frantically crumpled the note up, throwing it away from him. No. Sherlock had not gotten himself kidnapped. He was too skilled a fighter, would've hidden or found a gun at the last minute. He had had enough time to write the note, at any rate. So there was no way he would have been kidnapped. Was there?

"SHERLOCK, STOP THIS RIGHT NOW! If you're hiding somewhere, I swear to God..."

When there was no answer, John, in a complete panic at this point, began lifting up couch cushions and looking behind the drapes. No Sherlock. A sick feeling began chuckling inside his stomach, gnawing at his insides as his throat began to close. He paused for a second in an attempt to keep calm, and drew out his phone, quickly speed-dialing Lestrade.

"Hello?" answered the Detective Inspector after a few rings.

"Sherlock's missing. He left a note at the flat saying the Golem took him and oh God I don't know what to do Lestrade how are we going to find him what if he's been hurt?" John said, unable to think or speak clearly.

John sank to his knees; his horror was too great. What did the Golem want with Sherlock, why did he take him in broad daylight, why, why, why? _Oh, Sherlock..._

He buried his face in his left hand, his right still holding the phone up to his ear, although he was not truly hearing what Lestrade was saying. He began to stand up, but suddenly a cold hand snatched the phone away and another was gripping his wrist. Without turning around, John lifted his left arm and drew it back, preparing to punch whoever was holding him.

"I'd prefer if you didn't do that, John."

"Sherl- but what? What happened to- the Golem and-" John said, his face turning an unsightly shade of red as he felt anger welling up inside of him. "What the HELL are you doing?"

"Taking your pulse. Experiment. It's really racing, very interesting..."

"SHERLOCK!" John screamed, attempting to tear his arm away from Sherlock's grip. He would've been successful, if Sherlock hadn't chosen that moment to stamp on John's foot. Hard.

"Please stand still."

"OW! Sherlock, you just pretended to be kidnapped and made me think you were dead. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO STAND STILL?"

"Save your anger until after I'm done. Which will be in just a few seconds..."

John sighed, frustrated and exasperated. What did he do to deserve a flatmate that would do this to him without considering how much it would hurt him? Because it did hurt him. He couldn't bear to think of a life without the insufferable, obnoxious, cold Sherlock Holmes who he knew could never feel the same way about him.

After this latest incident, John resolved to stage his own little sneak attack on Sherlock Holmes. No more would he trust that Sherlock was out of the house, no more would he turn his back and allow for his flatmate to surprise him. It was John's turn to do the surprising.

The next Saturday evening, the pair were just returning from a case involving a string of arsons, and upon entering 221B, John asked, "Shall I make some tea, then?"

"Alright," said Sherlock.

"Go on, sit down. I'll be back in a moment."

To his surprise, Sherlock actually listened to John's advice and swung himself onto the couch, opening the newspaper he had picked up on the way home and beginning to read the first article on the front page.

A few minutes after, when John had poured the tea, he brought the two mugs into the living room and set them on the table. His heart beginning to thump harder in his chest, but trying not to show any outward signs of emotion, he walked over to Sherlock and plucked the newspaper out of his hands, throwing it on a side table.

"I was reading that!"

"I don't care."

John jerked forward suddenly, one hand grasping the arm of the couch and the other bracing against the back, face but an inch from Sherlock's. John gave him no time to protest. He brought his lips down upon Sherlock's, pressing hard and rough, forcing Sherlock's head to press into the back of the couch, and bit down hard on his lower lip, tugging it a bit just as he felt his flatmate attempting to push back. John grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's soft, wavy hair and pulled his head back, kissing harder as he did so.

And suddenly, just as he felt Sherlock begin to actually go along with what John was doing, the latter pulled away.

"So there," John said as if he had just given a snappy comeback to something Sherlock had said.

Sherlock lay motionless for a few moments, slowly blinking and staring into John's blue eyes. "I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"That you have an insatiable attraction to me, and I to you."

John had no response.

"I guessed this would happen eventually. Although I did enjoy it quite a bit more than I thought I would," said Sherlock.

"There is no way you suspected this, Sherlock. I don't believe you."

"Oh, no. I didn't expect this exact situation, but I knew that we would eventually be engaged in some sort of amorous act and that you would have been the one initiating it. It was clear to me from those pulse checks I did on you that it was only a matter of time."

"No."

"Yes."

"So that's why you scared the living daylights out of me and almost sent me into cardiac arrest. To be able to tell how much I cared about you. You could have just asked."

"You wouldn't have given an answer that would satisfy my curiosity. This was a better way. And far more entertaining."

"You are ridiculous, you know that?"

"Am I?"

"Definitely."

Sherlock smirked and grabbed John's wrist. "Pulse is up again."

"Would you like to check it again after this, you devil?" he said, slowly leaning down and pressing his lips to Sherlock's once more, this time more gently. He felt as if his heart was singing, beating along to the speed of his racing thoughts. Suddenly, he no longer minded that Sherlock had conducted those two "experiments" on him. It was enough to be able to express the emotions he had tried to suppress for so long and pour them into Sherlock himself.

"I certainly chose the right specimen," Sherlock stated after a few moments.

"Is that all I am, then? A specimen?"

"Of course."

"What?" asked John, slightly hurt from Sherlock's words.

"A joke, John. I suppose you were right. I shouldn't do the 'humor thing.'"

"Yes. That wasn't funny at all."

"I'm sorry. What I truly mean to say is that you are so much more than that, John Watson."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It's strange, I've never experienced this type of emotion before. It's sort of a dizziness, a bizarre feeling in my stomach..."

"Yeah? So you've never felt it before. What do you think it is?"

"If I had to venture a guess, I'd say it was love," said Sherlock with a wink.

"And your guesses are never wrong," John replied with a wry smile.


End file.
